Realizations
by loveofwrittenword
Summary: Many masks are worn, some with more familiarity than others. After time, one mask seems to become more permanent, and one's true self is hidden behind such facades. What does it finally take to break it away, what does it take for someone to finally see through such masquerades? What is left over when one's true self is finally allowed to see the light? Realizations.
1. Connection to Life

**REALIZATIONS**

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyers owns everything in the land of Twilight. So sad, but true. No infringement intended.

**Overture:**** Connection to Life**

"_A __good__friend__ is a connection to life – a tie to the past, a road to the future, the key to sanity in a totally insane world__" —__Lois Wyse _

. . .

The cracking of the fire is loud to her young ears, but it doesn't matter. The warmth of the flames tickles her skin, making her feel extra toasty. It also doesn't hurt that Rose's best friend is sitting next to her.

Their long, unraveled metal-hangers reach into the fire, melting the doughy marshmallows.

Rosalie shakes her head in disbelief, as she studies her Edward. Heavy blonde hair tumbles into her face and over her small shoulders: how can Edward like his marshmallows all but burnt_. That is just gross and silly. Boys are just silly_, her young mind thinks.

But it's the price she pays for having a silly boy for a best friend. Her girl friends at school thinks boys are gross, but they are not informed right, _or however mom says it_.

Plus, Edward's not really a boy – he's her best friend, her confidant, her pillow and her comfort. He is all things good rolled in to one. It is all her young mind is able to comprehend.

A bump to her arm pulls her from distracting thoughts and back to the present. Rose looks to her right and studies Edward. She can't help but think how coppery his hair looks in the firelight. It is memorizing like a spinning copper penny.

"Yours is going to get all burnt, Rosie. Better pull it from the fire." Quickly, she turns and sees her Edward is right.

A panicked squeak leaves her small lips as she hurriedly pulls the dark, _dark _golden marshmallow from the glowing flames. She refuses to believe it is burnt, no matter the knowing smirk on the silly boy's lips.

"Just how I like it," Rose exclaims stubbornly. She may not truly understand what the word 'pride' means or what it is, but the obstinate, little blonde has it in spades.

Fingers and lips become sticky as she carefully removes the gooey puff from the metal hanger, just as Mrs. Cullen and mommy taught her. Teeth bite into the now cooling puff. _So terribly yummy_, Rose thinks.

"Mmm, Edward. Mushy with every bite," the girl declares happily, loudly.

Female laughter can be heard from the patio, not far from the roaring flames of the camp fire. Rose pretends not to hear it. This is after all an African Safari she and Edward are embarking on. And their mothers are _not_ watching them carefully from nearby.

And tonight, as they sleep in their tent, they'll have to be quiet, trying not to attraction the attention of lions, elephants and zebras. Because her brother Jasper said lions (and especially Zebras) like to eat kids. And elephants could squash them too easily under their massively _**ginormously**_ big feet.

But Rosalie's not afraid. Or so she continues to remind herself – Edward will protect her, and she him. That's how being best friends work.

A pink tongue pokes out from between sticky lips as Rose licks the remaining sweetness. It's all they get tonight; four gooey marshmallows are the limit, or so their moms' declared. Parents can be so boring and not imaginative-ing (_or however mom says it_).

When she and Edward go on a real safari, they can have as many marshmallows as their tummies can handle. Boring parents aren't invited!

After what seems like a million years, Edward finally pulls his burnt puff from the fire. It looks gross and crunchy. _Doesn't he know they're 'posed to be fluffy? Duh_. Rose can't help but roll her violet eyes. Her boy_ is so terribly silly_!

"What's it taste like? Burnt earth worms?" Edward makes a cute, disgusted face which has Rosalie in hysterics. Her best friend watches as her pretty golden hair tumbles everywhere as she giggles. Unbeknownst to her, he is enchanted by her.

"No, dummy. It tastes like burnt boogers," Edward retaliates, once he stops noticing how shiny Rose's hair looks in the glowing light.

Youthful giggles roll out into the night, warming the atmosphere even more than the fire could.

"You're so terribly silly, Edward," Rose says, between belly-deep laughter.

"And you have yucky cootie, Rose."

Both happy, rose-cheeked children continue to tease each other. Fresh strawberries, grapes and bananas are consumed (moms' orders). They both pretend the fruit is chocolate covered roaches and grasshoppers, while making grossed-out faces to each other.

Deep promises are made in the warmth of the fire: they will be friends forever; Kristie from school likes Edward (even if he is still a gross boy), but he won't ever like her more than his Rose; both will go on lots of adventures together; and most importantly, they'll always make each other laugh.

Rose looks serious as she imparts knowing wisdom to her friend, "Mom says laughter is importin' in any r'lationship. It makes them healthy. We need to always keep us healthy, Edward. Right?" With solemnity, her best friend nods in total agreement.

"My dad says mom is always right," Edward confides to Rose. "Since you are the girl between us, you must be right, Rosie."

A beautiful, innocent smile blooms on the young Rose. They both don't really understand their parents, but it isn't really needed. They _comprehend_ each other completely. Without thought and simultaneously, they both reach for the other's hand.

It doesn't matter that her Edward is terribly yucky, has boy cooties and likes burnt-crunchy marshmallows, he is her best friend. They overlook each other's tiny 'comings (_or however mom says it_).

On the patio, beyond the memorizing fire and young secrets being shared, both mothers look on with adoration and light hearts.

"Think we shall be family someday, Esme?"

Esme removes the wine glass from her parted lips and stares out at the exquisitely innocent children. She can't help but sigh in peace and happiness.

"Oh, one never knows. But if these two continue holding hands into adulthood, there is a pretty good chance, Lillian."

Both women giggle like their children from earlier. They clink their glasses together, toasting to an unknown future they cannot see.

The clanking of glasses pulls the kids from their hushed conversation, and over to their mothers.

Both Rose and Edward roll their eyes.

"Moms are so silly," they exclaim together.

After another giggling session and friendly pushing from both sides (both being extra careful around the fire pit), they go back to hushed whispers and bonding over silly parents, silly siblings and silly kids from school.

.

"You 'wake, Edward?" Rose asks as she rolls over in her sleeping bag. The sound of the crickets have quieted, making everything else seem louder.

Rose isn't scared; she just wants to hear a familiar noise.

She can make out some mumbling coming from him, but thinks he may not be awake.

She tries again, calling his name a little louder. Above all, she doesn't want to wake their parents. After what seems like hours (which is really a minute later), her tent-mate finally awakes.

"Rose," he mumbles, hiding a yawn behind his hand, like mother taught. While stretching, he turns towards his friend. "You wake?"

"Yeah, can't sleep. I'm listenin' for the lions that can eat us."

"There aren't really lions, Rose." Her friend laughs between slatted fingers covering his mirth.

"Maybe, but I have protect you. You're my Edward, after all, silly."

Rose yawns, now becoming sleepy as she hears the soothing voice of her best friend. He can comfort her better than anyone; even more so than her daddy's huge, safe arms. There is just something about her Edward.

"And you're my Rose. Or as my dad says, _my love_."

The wheels in Rose's head starts to turn. Being someone's love is an interesting thought. She can't really comprehend the concept, but she knows that Edward is close to her heart: it's sad when he is, happy when he is and beats ever so proudly when he calls her "best friend".

Perhaps that's what being someone's love is.

"Then . . . you're my love, too." Quiet confidence is heard strongly in her tone, but felt so deeply in her bones. Another yawn steals the young girl's breath.

"But," Edward goes to argue, making sure his Rose understands his position, "I get to call you 'love'. You can't call me that, too. We'll get too messed up." Tired giggles take over the pair.

_These are the best times_, both can't help but think. _My Edward_ . . .

_My Rose love_.

Before the little blonde succumbs to the land of Nod, she blindly reaches out and finds her friend's hand, half way – already reaching out towards hers.

_We'll always be like this. Rose and Edward: fighting kid-eating Zebras and eating burnt boogers_.

Both surrender to the sandman. Dreams filled with laughter and adventures abound.

.

* * *

.

Ramblings: Okay, this is the first part. It is more of a foundation to be built upon. I had so much fun writing this chapter. The youthful innocence is a beautiful thing. Hope you enjoyed. There will be two more parts to this: one in Edward's POV and the other in Rosalie's. They will be older, of course; this overture is more of their beginnings, their young roots.

Now is your turn. Please review and let me know what you thought. Would you like to see more?

Thanks for stopping by!


	2. Cannot be Long Hidden

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyers owns. No infringement intended. Note: Some profanity.

**Cannot be Long Hidden**

"_Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth.__"—__Buddha_

. . .

Edward's POV

The lined paper is already crinkled under my fingers, parts of the ink smudged from my fidgeting. The noise level around me is loud, but like static from an un-tuned radio. Chairs are sliding back and forth, lunch trays placed loudly on tables, footfalls pounding on the cement floor; and all of it seems like white noise.

My head is bent, hair falling annoyingly into my right eye. Both of my hands clasp the college-rule paper, with such provocative words written.

Some may think the words plain or not very insightful. But perception is just that – someone else's understanding, comprehension.

An unresolved sigh leaves my parted lips, leaving me still feeling agitated. No matter how much I take in the words, or memorize each syllable, I cannot suss out the sender – the author of such thought.

For whom would know of my dark thoughts, my loneliness, my need to break from a mould which constantly pigeonholes me? Who would see beyond the veneer with which I cover myself?

My fingers clasp the paper even tighter, the written lifeline to another's soul. The one person who seems to see beyond my distorted reflection.

Sadly, something breaks me from my concentration, pulling me fighting from my short reprieve.

Revulsion crawls through my veins, sending tiny bumps erupting on my skin. I try to stop the sneer from spreading on my lips, but the fight is in vain.

"What the hell?" I demand, as she pulls her sopping tongue from inside my ear, creating a line of spittle from her protruding bottom lip to my lobe.

I'm beyond appalled. Hurriedly I raise my shoulder and wipe at my dripping ear. Does the girl have no decorum at a lunch table?

"Edward," she part whines – part pants.

Our eyes finally meet. Her big, browns look hurt, as if my anger isn't justified and somehow out of line.

"What the hell, Bella!" I demand, again, wanting some answer and not her little pitying act.

I make sure to keep my voice down, for only her to hear. Regardless of my anger and disgust, I am a private person and hate for my business to be aired, which my girlfriend (of over a year) is well aware of.

A soft sheen comes to her eyes, and I wonder how soon tears will fall. My agitation only increases, sending my blood pressure soaring. I can feel my breath becoming short, my fingers constricting.

"I was trying to get your attention, Edward," she murmurs. Quickly her face drops, her chin hits chest.

Deep, fortifying breaths expand my lungs, trying to push the anxiety from my racing heart.

This routine she's putting on is nothing new.

It wasn't always like this between us. There was a time when I was happy to have Bella by my side, missing her when she was out of sight.

My mind thinks about the shy girl she used to be: the one who blushed when I kissed her cheek, touched the back of her hand, allowed my fingers to rest on her leg. Her pinkening face would color so beautifully; no guile present. All of her reactions to me used to be unrehearsed and so exquisitely natural. My heart would literally fall over her.

But like the way of the earth, all things change – and my beautiful, once-shy girlfriend is no different.

"By putting your damn tongue in my ear?" I can't keep the scathing tone from my question. "Heaven forbid you try talking to me first! Try touching my arm to get my attention. No, your damn saliva was more effective."

If someone were listening they would think me a terrible boyfriend, talking to my shaking girlfriend in such a manner. But Bella is a good actress. She's learned from the best.

Bella picks up her head. Her eyes are drenched, and a tear runs down her cheek. There would have been a time I'd wipe the fallen tear, my heart breaking at seeing such a sad sight.

But even beyond the waterworks, I can see the fire beyond. I can see the ire she feels for my attitude.

Most everyone else she has fooled. "_Oh, Bella you're so cute . . . so shy_." —

"_I can't imagine you getting angry_." —

"_Do you and Edward, like, ever fight? You must be, like, the most perfect couple_." —

"_Oh, how adorable, Bella's blushing again_."

_Cue giggling_.

But they don't really see her. They see what she wants, what she desire's them to see. And like everyone else, I used to be the same. However, times have changed. Her façade has crumbled around my feet.

"I already tried," she hisses. "What the hell's more important on a piece of paper than me?" Another thing no one really expects from Bella – her cussing and uncouth attitude.

"Words," I answer honestly. It is meant to be sarcastic, but also truthful. _Provoking words to my thumping heart_.

"You're such an asshole," she mumbles, for my ear only, which is fine; I'm beyond her ire and thin insults.

I never doubted I wasn't an asshole or even tried to hide the fact. But beyond my public veneer and asshole-behavior, there is something infinitely deeper. It flutters hopefully under my skin, begging to be released.

"And you're a raging bitch, but you don't see me filling your ear with spittle."

Hurt blooms in her eyes, and momentarily, I know it's real, but I cannot care. We are beyond redemption. Yet still we remain: hurting each other, maintaining our recurring roles.

"Are you coming over or not?" Attitude-Bella seems here to stay. "My dad has to work the late shift . . . and," she drawls airily, leaning closer to my ear again, "you haven't fucked me in what feels like forever . . ."

I try not to cringe, but I can feel a little antipathy take over me. Thankfully, Bella is leaning forward, unable to see my reaction.

There was a time when her saying "fucked" would have made me harder than anything. Such a filthy word falling from such innocent lips does a thing to a man's dick. I am a man, and not any different than an average teenager (when it comes to sex, at least).

Regardless of what I now feel or don't feel for my "girlfriend", the thought of sex makes my dick twitch. And Bella is right – it has been a while. Well, if one counts three weeks abstinence a long time.

"You can put it anywhere . . ."

I want to be mad with myself, but my cock twitching only allows me minimal recrimination. The need to be in a wet, tight place is very tempting. _Hands just aren't the same, man_, I can all but hear my Private moan.

But even with my hormones ranging and my dick wanting, it doesn't take the edge from my temper or the anger I feel for Bella. We are beyond redemption. Using each other for who knows what.

I laugh, spitefully, but wonder if anyone can truly tell the difference. My public veneer is crafted too expertly.

I pull back from Bella, studying her face. Carefully, I fold the paper in my left hand before caressing Bella's cheek with my right. "Such a whore at times, baby. Aren't you?"

I mean no compliment and the question isn't meant as foreplay of any kind. It is the truth I've come to learn.

Hot anger boils just under her surface, and the blush covering her face isn't from happiness or shyness. _Oh, for we both know _it's borne of spite for me, yet her still wanting my dick filling her. Bella makes no apologies or delineation.

"But you'll still put it anywhere, Edward. Won't you?" she counters.

I can see pride at her little jab taking root on her visage. _That's okay. I never pretended to be anything else. At least not with you, Bella_, I can't help but think.

"With you begging me. _Wantonly._ Every step of the way. _Bending_ at _**my**_ feet, with my dick falling from your lips."

The cruel words seem almost foreign to me, but again, sadly, it is nothing new for us. Been here and continuously prolonging to do this.

Bella raises her hand, as if she's about to slap me, but fire burning in my eyes reminds her of my rules. If she wants to continue being my girlfriend then she knows my rules. Above everything, I keep my business private – and she knows this.

Smartly she reroutes and pushes her angry hand through her beautiful tresses. I still love her hair: thick, deep and flowing freely.

A tight smile turns the corner of her lips, but it looks to all the world like a loving grin.

"Come about five. Charlie isn't supposed to be home until after midnight."

I nod and give her a tight smile in return. My head drops, ready to read the provocative words again, but a whisper is felt near my right ear.

"Love you." The message – which was one heartwarming and sweet – is now tainted and vile.

Wetness invades me ear, again. And before I can react to her fucking sticking her tongue in my ear again, she leaves me, giggling sweetly for all of our school to see.

_Raging bitch_.

"Edward's getting lucky tonight, boys," Mike croons, for our table to hear.

Male snickering fills my hearing like buzzing, my inside cringing. I let a sly smirk take over my lips (another piece of me falling away within), knowing how captivating it can be. Very devil-may-care.

"Don't be jealous, man. I hear Lauren will let even you near her snatch." My friends break out in raucous laughter, cheering my name on like sycophants.

Mike's skin takes on a pink hue, but he still smiles; either too scared or too dim-witted to say something back to me.

And on and on we go, on and on my life tumbles, on and on the public persona is worshipped and becomes legend.

I bow my head, my friends now occupied with teasing each other about their "exploits". It's all white noise again.

I unfold the paper and allow my eyes to take in every letter, every word, every preconception I unravel. My heart beats erratically at what's written.

_Are you able to pull it back, Edward, or is it too stuck? Has the glue dried indefinitely, or is it only stuck together with an even thinner substance? _

_Would it even hurt you . . . to pull it back and show what truly lies beneath? What keeps you from doing so? _

_A fear of the unknown? A fear of not being revered? A fear of having to be yourself and judged on such merits?_

_But I've already discovered the answer, Edward. Are you ready for it? Wholly ready?_

_Here it is:_

_It is only a veneer, Edward._

_Noun. __A thin surface layer, as of finely grained wood, glued to a base of inferior material._

_Immaterial._

_Which part of you is the inferior part and which is the finely grained part? Outside . . . inside. Within . . . without._

_May I answer, or give you my perception, my perspective? _

_Inside you . . . within __you__, is the fine grain. _

_I see beyond your inferior part. I see beyond your façade. You're more than what you allow yourself to be. I see beyond it all, Edward. _

_Whether you allow anyone to truly see is your decision. What we see, too, is our decision. _

_You may think, 'what is the purpose of my observation.' Why even write this to you. _

_Because . . . Because . . . Because. _

_I see beyond your veneer, and I see you wanting someone to __**see.**__ Someone does, Edward. And my same struggles touch yours. _

_What would we see when we, Edward, pull back our decorative coverings? _

Would it even hurt_? _

My breathing is so heavy in my lungs. The flowing script before my eyes – which is almost too painfully beautiful to even read – wounds me deeply.

The way she is able to see me, know me, question me is beyond terrifying. That someone else suffers what I do; wholly _**empathizes**_ with me, touches deeply.

I will the stinging from my eyes, gently push the paper into my Polo pocket and save the philosophical wonderings for another time.

_Because. _

_Because._

_Because_.

Now isn't the time.

"I bet Edward's had Bella in every position possible. It's always the shy, quite ones, boys," Tyler titters.

I guess it is now his turn to lead the table in such introspective conversations.

"Come on, Edward. Dish, man." Internally I sigh (break away), but outwardly, I smile callously.

"Kiss my ass." The table of my minions laughs at Tyler.

_("What would we see when we, Edward, pull back our decorative coverings? _Would it even hurt_?")_

Probably more than I could even fathom.

. . .

Weeks pass and still nothing changes: no new notes in expensive envelopes have been placed (anonymously) in my locker, no breaking up with my charlatan of a girlfriend, no pulling back my public persona.

The status quo of Edward Cullen is unchanging. How stagnant can something become before it atrophies?

On autopilot I endure, doing the same routine until inwardly I atrophy: School, act happy outwardly, crack inappropriate jokes to make me feel big, fuck my girlfriend tirelessly (Yes, still in any hole and any position I want), receive top grades possible in all classes, be the perfect son to the perfect parents.

Sometimes, it's difficult for me to see the purpose of this life. What is the point of continuing?

Would it be terribly out-of-character if during Calc., I pulled my jeans down, stood on top of my desk and asked my teacher to _suck my dick_?

Perhaps, but surely it would take me out of this numbing repetition, this unchanging atmosphere.

Something cold is placed in my right hand, startling me for what seems like the first time in months.

I look away from the roaring fire and at the intruder.

Mike, stupidly spiked hair and suck-up extraordinaire, is placing another cold beer in my hand and removing the finished one.

I ignore the urge to yell at him and instead swallow the cold, bitter liquid. I'm not even sure why I like beer. The taste isn't really palatable to me. But it is what I do, what we – high school students – do.

Mike is saying something, which makes him sound like a braying donkey, but I try to ignore his ignorance. Unfortunately, the bastard has always been persistent.

". . . parents are so cool. I can't believe they allow you and your sister to drink. My parents would totally shit their pants. Man, Alice and you are lucky shits."

_Did he just call me shit_? For some sad reason this rings funny to me, and I laugh.

Mike looks at me as if he's accomplished something awe-inspiring. _Pathetic_.

"And to have a party, for no reason at all, even better. My parents are hardly letting me have a party for graduation. You're coming, right, Edward?"

I stare at him, trying to figure out what makes him tick, what makes him so obliviously happy. Does he really think me lucky, simply because my father (being a doctor) has seen too many accidents of underage drinking and driving?

"_Too many people have died on my table, son. Never would I want you or Alice to be there. Your mother and I could never fathom that, son." I nodded as he confided in me. _

"_Please never be one of those. If you must drink, I'd rather you do it here. And I'm not naïve enough to believe you're not doing it. Your sister included."_

And so Alice and I drink at home. I only do so during lame-ass school parities, such as this. I have no need to otherwise. It only makes me more depressed, and I refuse to escape from my problems behind a bottle and a damaged liver.

Alice, however, is another story. It seems as if she and Bella are imbibing every chance possible. But it isn't my problem. There is only so much I can do or order them about.

Really, the only rule to these parties is no driving home drunk. A designated driver is mandatory.

And yes, my friends follow this rule to an absolute. I make sure that damn rule is followed. No designated driver – no drinking. Once it's happened and never again was that person ever invited back to my house. Eric Yorkie is now in social exile.

None of my other friends want to be there, so they follow this rule, drunk or not.

As to their parents seeing their inebriated state when they return is their deal. Perhaps their parents turn a blind eye. _Oh well_.

". . . so quiet when drunk. How many have you had?"

I shake my head, realizing he's still braying at me. I guess Mike is just one of those people who can exist in the here and now, unconcerned with things of a conjectural nature.

"I may become a little maudlin, Mike. Nothing to write home about."

A blank look takes over my "friend's" face. I can't help but roll my eyes at his small, diminutive vocabulary. His SAT score mustn't have been all that good.

"Whatever, Mike. Don't piss yourself over my being quiet. I'm fine." There: short words, no more than two syllables (sans whatever). Even slightly tipsy I can talk him around in circles.

"Fine, dude." He pouts a little, but I don't concern myself with it. Mike is eighteen years old now going on five.

Inside, I call myself a hypocrite. Haven't I spent the majority of this lame party sitting on my couch, drink in hand, sulking over my unchanging behavior?

As I look outside the wall-to-wall windows, I can't help but sigh. The bass to another pop song sizzles along my skin, rattling my ear drums. However terrible the song, the DJ is quite skilled. Unfortunately he has to work within the parameters given to him. Alice had demanded pop.

I turn back to the party, the low lights giving my living room a club-ish feel. To my right, Mike continues to bore me, and to my left, twenty feet in front, Bella and my manipulative sister grind on each other.

Several guys are drooling over them, but I'm not concerned. Disturbed perhaps, but nothing else. My sister is a bitch and so is her "bestie".

Someone else used to hold the title, but she no longer relative. Alice can be a spiteful little bitch. I love my sister, in that obligated way, but not beyond. Sad, yes; but the God's honest truth.

Long story short, Alice was dating her best friend's brother. At some other monotonous party, said best friend caught Alice lip-locked with someone definitely not her boyfriend. Said best friend told Alice's boyfriend (her brother) and now Alice has another "bestie".

And now my girlfriend is a raging bitch like my sister, and quite the manipulative actress like her, too. _Aren't I so lucky_?

I tip back my beer and drink to my pathetic thoughts. Maudlin indeed.

". . . and Emmett said he couldn't take her attitude anymore. Then guess what, Edward? You'll never guess."

Unlike before, Mike has my attention. When there is a story about Emmett, it surely involves his girl. I am now intrigued.

"Just fucking tell me, Mike," I snap unfairly. Thankfully he doesn't start pouting again.

"Emmett and her broke up," he finishes grandly, as if telling me the last hidden secret to the universe.

To say I'm surprised would be an understatement. Never would I have imagined Rose and Emmett breaking up. When one thinks of high school sweethearts and soulmates those two automatically come to mind.

No matter how terribly clichéd or sickeningly it may sound, I thought they were deeply in love and would make it to forever.

"_High school love_" and that "_forever" _shit are ridiculous. I'm not one who prescribes to such terminal bullshit, but again, those two seemed to transcend such saccharine dribble.

Sadly, my heart hurts for _her_. Rose seems to have lost a lot. Not only has my bitch of a sister dumped her (after Rosalie was honest with her brother about my sister's cheating behavior), but now Emmett has bailed.

"Did Emmett say why?" I can't help but ask. Something inside of me needs to know . . . wants to know.

"He was just sick of her Ice Queen shit. Said that though he loved her-(Mike makes a face)-he couldn't deal with her too many personalities."

I look away from his squished face. He looks as if he's sucked on something too salty.

_Rose is single. Emmett and she are no longer together. Rose is single. Emmett and she are no longer intimate_.

My heart feels as if it'll pound straight from my chest.

". . . to visit his brother. And the Ice Queen is here. I can't believe she actually came. I thought she'd hide out at home."

The need to hit Mike's face is mounting. I can't fathom what gives him the right to talk about her in such a way. Perhaps he's still stinging from her rejection our sophomore year.

He pretended to have bigger balls then he has and asked Rose out in front of the entire cafeteria. Rosalie took one look at him, pushed her silky blonde hair behind her shoulder and turned away. Nothing said.

I still laugh at her simple production. With one quelling look she had him down for the count.

It hadn't been until Emmett McCarthy and family moved into town that she even considered dating someone.

I push the past away and focus on the present. It's difficult but I process what Mike said, ". . . _here. I can't believe she even came_."

Without further thought, I push up from my seat. Vertigo swiftly hits me as I go to walk away. My lids fall heavily as I try to steady both my breathing and heart rate.

A clammy hand touches my bare forearm. I cringe as I pull away. Mike's disgustingly wet skin should not be touching me in any way.

"Sorry," I hear, but ignore.

"Get me another beer," I order, anything to get him and his sweaty hands from me. Quickly he scurries off, giving me time to compose myself.

Unforgiving, the loud music pounds in my ears, only adding to my queasiness.

_Damn, I have to get out of here_. The air is stifling with hot breathes, smelly skin and stale alcohol.

Everything is too close and spinning crazily.

As safely as possible, and as my vertigo will allow, I make my way from the room and over to the stairs leading to the upper floors.

Slowly, I ascend, making sure to lock the gate back before I go. In no uncertain terms is anyone allowed beyond the first floor of my house. Another rule people who come to our parties are familiar with.

As I reach my room on the third floor, I push my bedroom door open and proceed in. Thankfully the music is now a dull roar and the spinning behind my eyes has ceased.

Cool, clean air swirls over my overheated skin, making me sigh in pleasure.

Quickly I shut the door, trying to drown out as much as the redundant pop music as possible. I can't even tell one singer from another.

As I go to hit the light switch and make my way over to my balcony door, I'm stopped. Frozen in who I see in front of me.

"Hello, Edward. Fancy seeing me here, hmm?"

. .

Blink.

Once . . . twice . . . and, again just to be sure.

I still stand frozen, not saying anything, looking like a complete imbecile.

"I hadn't meant to intrude," she whispers uncertainly.

Still I say nothing.

"Would you prefer me to leave?"

Still I say nothing.

"Forgive my intrusion."

As she starts to walk away, leaving my balcony door ajar, I move into motion. Her leaving has jolted me.

I step over to my left and block her path to freedom. Regardless of how I am coming across, I can't allow her to just leave. Mike's words still ring in my head about her and Emmett breaking up.

"What, Edward? What do you want?" Rosalie asks. It hurts me to hear the defeat, the dejection in her tone.

Meanly I could make some snide comment about her being in _my _room and trespassing beyond the closed gate, but I don't. The time where we were caustic and terrible to each other has passed.

Now we seem to exist in a world of ignoring each other. Pretending the other doesn't exist.

But to try and pretend this girl (nay woman) doesn't exist is beyond ludicrous.

One doesn't simply ignore Rosalie Hale. Yes, she's scarily smart and talented: both musically and academically, and has a sharp tongue (I try not to moan).

But above it all, she is downright, categorically, un-surpassingly fucking gorgeous.

And sadly, yes, it is what most people see about her first and foremost. It is what most people envy about her. It is what most people hate about her. It is what most people judge about her.

Glamour, beauty and grace like Rosalie's is either hated, scorned, envied, pitied, sought after or worshipped.

Never would I think, 'poor Rosalie, she's too beautiful. How terribly sad that must be for her.' That shit is too childish. But truly, when someone first looks at her, she's instantly judged. Nine times out of ten, this is the case.

Whether it is the unbelievable curves to her womanly figure, the tumbling golden hair, the flawless complexion, her exquisitely glorious face or fashionable clothes, she is quick to be judged.

Suffice it to say, if I hadn't known the girl for most of my life I'd probably instantly judge her too. There is something about Rosalie Hale which brings inexplicable emotions to one's surface. She is simply one of those enigmatic people.

Her brother, Jasper Hale, is the same. They are two peas from the same mysterious pod.

"Are you feeling alright, Edward?" I close my eyes and focus on the way she caresses my name. "You're looking a little flushed and sweaty."

Her words aren't meant as an insult, but out of concern. Clearly, I can hear the acute worry in her tone.

There used to be a time that everything we said to each other was out of spite and hatred. We were both electrical charges in a thunderstorm waiting to collide.

After what feels like forever, I unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth and speak, "Too many beers, too many people downstairs, too much Mike Newton. Not necessarily in that order."

A little giggle escapes her, sounding like the softest of pealing bells to me. Somehow I feel as if I've accomplished something at this stupid party: for a moment I am able to make her feel less sad.

Though she may not voice it, or even have confided in me about her breakup, I can still see the immense sadness lingering in her eyes.

The jaded and icy personality with which she usually wraps around herself has fallen to the ground in tatters. The difference is quite stark.

"_That_ I can understand. Too much of Mike Newton is hazardous to one's health." This time I join in with her laughter. It sounds rusty on both of our ends.

When did our lives become so bleak, our mirth so unused? And at just eighteen.

I open my eyes and study her magnificent features. Even in her sorrow, she's able to leave me breathless.

I don't think and just ask, "How are you, Rosalie?" regardless of her reaction. It could totally blow up in my face or simply be answered. One doesn't always know with this woman.

Her eyes become unfocused and I prepare myself for the fallout. Instead of anger, yelling and her hand slapping me about the face, glistening tears fill her eyes.

Seeing Rosalie Hale cry is like seeing the sun rising in the west and setting in the east. It simply isn't done.

Unthinkingly, I rush forward and go to her. The need to hold and comfort, to try and give her any relief is too sharp in me. Like her, I need the relief.

However, before I can reach her, Rose's legs have already given out. Her knees make a soft thunk as they meet my thick-carpeted floor.

As soon as I reach her, my arms immediately wrap about her. I pull her face in to the crease of my neck, feeling her hot tears soaking my shirt.

Wracking sobs shake her curvy frame as she clings to me, hands fisted in the back of my shirt.

I'm not sure what to do or how to proceed. Crying girls have never been my forte. All I can do is cling to her as she does me.

My right hand wraps around her silky hair as my left rubs gently along her spine. My lips rest at her ear as I try to whisper comforting words.

"_A strong shoulder and encircling arms can help to heal someone more than words, son. Actions above inaction_." My father's advice sounds in my head. He is quite a smart man, even if I don't always take his advice to heart.

"Dumped me, Edward. Said . . . too different . . . direction . . . too cold . . . enough of me." Her speech is broken and heartrending to listen to.

"I know, love," I mumble into her ear, pushing back her heavy hair so she can understand me better.

I want her to feel the truthfulness of my reply. Never want her to think, I'm simply placating her with nonsense.

"It is his loss, Rosalie. If he cannot deal with you," I cringe at the terminology, "I mean, if he cannot be with you, how you are, then truly, it is his loss. His misfortune. No lies, Rosalie. I speak no lies to you, love."

I cannot believe how easily I slip back into my pet name for her. When little, I used to call her "love" all the time. Our parent thought it "too adorable". Naturally I picked it up from my father. Not understanding really what it meant, only knowing what I felt for her. Little Rosalie Hale was my "love".

As we got older and puberty hit, our closeness all but evaporated. The love we shared and the friendship we had cultivated ceased to exist. Sweet kind words turned into hateful insults. I never could understand what had truly happened to us, but being a young boy hitting puberty I didn't really care.

Yet, now as I hold her and the animosity between us long buried, I can't help but wonder, can't help but break for the girl who was once my "love".

"Cold, Edward?" She is now staring at me, watery violet eyes saturated with tears. If she were only talking about the temperature I would wrap a blanket around her, easily solving her dilemma. "Me?"

_Fuck, Emmett. What have you done to unshakable Rosalie Hale_?

Instinctively, my left hand moulds to her hot cheek, thumb outlining the curve under her shimmering eye.

My green eyes settle on every fallen tear, every crease on her forehead, every bit of sadness on her lovely face. All the while my hand is memorizing the texture of her skin, of her sorrow.

"No, Rosalie. You aren't cold," I answer her openly. My right hand wrapped more firmly around her hair, slightly pulling it back so she can clearly see into my eyes. I want her to soak in every truth.

"Determined, resolute, enduring, protective, brilliant. Those are the attributes I see when looking at you, _into you_, love."

She gives a little shudder, blinks several times and leans further in to the hand blanketing her right cheek.

"What some see as cold, hard and unapproachable, is terribly untrue. They don't know _you_, Rose. They can't understand why you may seem like that, why you protect yourself as such. They don't know your past, and nor should they!"

Tenderly my lips touch her forehead before pulling her back into my arms. I replace my lips at her temple, mumbling how much I adore her. Her chest becomes slack has she leans her weight on me. I take it all.

Back and forth we rock; she continues to cry, sharp sobs catching in her lungs.

I'm at a loss and still unsure of what to do. I wonder if my actions, my words, my miniscule efforts are having any effect on her.

As I go to ask her, needing to know if I'm helping her in any way possible, she becomes completely compliant in my arms. Her limbs feel like jell-o and her head sags sleepily on my wet shoulder. Rosalie has lost the battle with her exhaustion.

And thanks to whomever made it possible.

I sit for a while and enjoy her closeness. I cannot remember when we were this close. It seems like ages.

Again, I try and remember how we drifted apart, how we became so hateful to each other, but I only draw a blank. Perhaps I'm not meant to remember, or it is moot.

Every now and then Rose fidgets, as if trying to run away from something in her unconscious mind, but I only pull her closer to me, taking from her the pain and replacing it with my warmth.

As I start to drift off, a memory of when we were younger comes to the forefront. It is embarrassing to think about (how silly I acted when little), but happily it pulls a lazy smile from me.

Slowly, I pull my hand out from under Rose, making sure not to wake or jostle her. With as much care, I pull the comforter from my bed and several pillows.

When the blanket from my bed is sufficiently covering us, and my head is resting on my pillow – with Rose still tucked into my body – I allow the sleep to claim me. Like Rose I fall helplessly.

But as I drift, the memory soaks into me, reminding me of our earlier childhood and favorite song (mind, we were terribly young).

Tenderly I start to sing; the lyrics somehow remembered, "If all the raindrops were lemon drops and gumdrops, oh what a rain that would be . . ."

I can feel my face cheeks heating, but I continue, relishing the innocence.

"If all the snowflakes were candy bars and milkshakes, oh what a snow that would be."

_Wouldn't that be, Rose, love_?, is my last conscious thought before I drift off. Embraced and warmed within from such sweet child memories and love remembered.

.

The pounding in my head is all but unforgivable. I can't help but wonder what I did to deserve such punishment.

Achingly I turn over and try to stop the weak sun from burning my cornea. The success is limited, but any relief is welcomed.

A slight tickle is felt on my skin as a crinkling sound is made directly in my ear. My head lifts from the pillow as I groan in pain.

"What the hell happened?" I ask an empty room. Looking down, I try to figure out the source of the loud noise while trying to shield my eyes and stop the aching in my head. "Good morning," I grumble irritably. A reply isn't needed.

Finally my scratchy eyes land on a crumpled piece of paper. As I squint, the writing becomes familiar.

_But I thought I put this in my dresser drawer for safe keeping_, I think dizzily. Before the party, before the cheap booze, before comforting Rosalie.

Frantically I look around, unable to see my crying friend. Somehow the coldness of the room and her absence permeates to my very bones. I listen to make sure she isn't in my en suite. All remains silent.

I bite my lip and try to stem the flow of hurt coursing through me. It's difficult to comprehend last night and her simply leaving this morning. My fist clutches at my pillow, trying to release the bubbling emotions within.

Again, I hear a crinkling noise and look down.

"Dammit," I grouse. Never would I want to ruin the piece of paper which has given me such solace, such permission to be myself. _Though I haven't taken it_.

As I start to iron out the wrinkles made by my hand, all the while ignoring the aching of my bones, the nastiness of my breath and the pounding in my head, different words greet my blurry vision.

"But I thought . . ." I can't help but say out loud. Confusion swamps me as I read what's written:

_Sorry to have left you so hurriedly this morning, Edward. Please don't think it's a slight on you or the kindness you gave to me last night. I shall always cherish it. _

_But I needed to go home. My parents didn't even know I was gone. Their frantic texts this morning sent me into overdrive. _

_Perhaps we can get a coffee some time, or in your case an herbal tea._

I can't help but smile wobbly as she remembers my hot drink of choice. Yes, my friends think me an old lady at times, but I appreciate tea and all it has to offer. My father is part British after all.

_The drinks are on me, along with some much needed smiles. Thank you, Edward, for more than you could realize. Yours in thankfulness,_ 'love

.

My heart starts an unsteady beat as I take in how she signed the short letter. She must remember our sad interlude last night, despite her grief.

As I start to lose the blurriness from my eyes, and my brain starts to dissect what I see before me, the ticking of my heart is all but painful.

Because before me is the answer to what I've been seeking, the answer to the one question I haven't been able to answer.

My heart skips wildly as my head once again starts to spin. And this time it has nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with scrawling, beyond elegant handwriting.

The note left in my locker . . . the note which has given me the sweetest reprieve these last months has come from something I already knew, someone who had already saw me.

It has been Rosalie Hale this entire time.

It is all incomprehensible to me. I'm left speechless. Slowly, as if on autopilot, my head hits my pillow and doesn't take in the exquisitely beautiful handwriting my eyes are studying.

_I see beyond it all, Edward., _her other letter had read. And fucking hell, she had seen beyond it all.

I'm left bare.

.

* * *

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Ramblings: All new and spiffy, here is the next chapter. Hope you liked it.

Did you like it? Hate it? Indifferent? Please leave me your thoughts. Did anything special about the chapter capture you?

Thanks to all who reviewed last chapter, you are all amazing! Thanks for stopping by.

Next up: Rosalie's POV. Should be quite fun. (*wink*).


	3. Choose to Rise

**Choose To Rise**

"_Bad things do happen; how I respond to them defines my character and the quality of my life. I can choose to sit in perpetual sadness, immobilized by the gravity of my loss, or I can choose to rise from the pain and treasure the most precious gift I have _- _life itself.__"_—_Walter Anderson_

. . .

Rosalie's POV

It feels ticklish, the sand between my toes. How easily it can take me back: to childhood, innocence, enduring faith, all things magical, the hurt of a scrape cured by the kiss of a parent.

A small grin spreads over my lips as I let the peace of the moment wash over me. Playfully, I wiggle my feet deeper into the cold sand, rubbing the little grains between my toes. What folly, but that's fine; to me, I'm at the ending of an era.

I can't help the little tinkling giggles bubbling in my throat. Everything feels terribly free. Like at any moment my arms will turns to wings and I'll soar gracefully among the currents of the air. Lazily. Unencumbered.

_Such frivolous thoughts, Rose_ . . .

Contended breaths leave my lungs as I lay back and take in the glory of the sunset sky. Dark oranges, pinks and purples paint the drifting clouds, adding exquisite depths to the stratosphere. What breathless wonder we live in, and how forgotten it all seems.

It is not everyday I'm this sentimental. Like many others, I take much for granted. I go about my business, trying to accomplish and get done everything within the span of a day. Most times, I'm oblivious to such splendor. But today, I soak everything in, letting the tender breeze, the roaring of the waves and the tickling sand wrap me tightly in a fuzzy embrace.

I close my eyes as a salty breeze dances over my skin. What a glorious day.

Four years have been leading up to this day, this moment. Many things have happened, many tears spilled, many laughed echoed, much anger experienced, many grudges let go.

And after it is all over, here I lay: on a late August day, sun bathing my skin, wind tangling my hair, simplicity abounding. What more could a girl ask for?

Amongst the four years comprising my high school career, there are many things I should like to forget: the petty arguments, the anger over insults, the harsh words spoken to me from haters. Eventually it will be forgotten, like wisps of vapor evaporating.

But mixed in with the bad has been the good, the things I hope my memory will always retain: the rush of high school love, the pleasant feeling of friendship, the accomplishments earned and the scars obtained.

And even with it all over, it will remain a part of me. Some people think high school the greatest time of their life, while some think it the bane of their existence. Myself? Well, it is probably a mixture of the two.

It didn't take me long to reach the top echelon of high school popularity. With my looks and strong personality, most people didn't know what to make of me. Many wanted to be near me, yet they couldn't understand why. Some hated, others envied, but many wanted to conquer.

And even with me being in the hierarchy of popularity I felt lost. It was easy to make people believe I was happy, conceited and above it all. What did I need of silly high school children? My inflated arrogance told me I transcended.

But like most unhappy people only pretending to be something they aren't, the glitter of contentment wore off.

And there I was left lost, not knowing where to turn, who actually liked me (beyond the beauty and popularity) and if the person I had become was admired within myself.

Even with Emmett being the love of my teenage years and the easy acceptance he gave to me, it wasn't enough. Unfairly and not really knowing what else to do, I started to take out my bitterness and discontent on him. Why is it always those closest to us who bear the brunt of our vileness?

Constantly I searched for something to make me happy, even a little content. But nothing became manifested. And the further I down spiraled, the further I pushed Emmett and others away.

One of my most unpleasant memories had come at the hands of my best friend.

Alice Cullen and I became as close as I allowed anyone to me. Edward had become a past memory and a part of my childhood. Unknowingly to him, it had been puberty which turned me from him.

Sadly he started to notice girls that weren't me. I would see him staring at them, appreciating something I hadn't given to him. I couldn't stand to see him with someone else, so I left.

Selfishly I refused to be second in his life. I didn't know how to do second place. So I bailed. With my breast and full figure came the need of female companionship. Alice filled the role beautifully.

But like time changing the course of everyone's life, mine shifted again. Accidentally seeing Alice cheating on my brother with someone else decidedly not him changed me permanently. I was finished with her, and after I told my brother what I saw, so was he. I didn't have room in my life for people stabbing me and mine in the back.

So with only Emmett barely clinging to me, I had nothing left. My brother went away to college and my senior year started.

The status quo continued, causing me nothing but pain and monotonous purgatory. I could no longer tread water.

Seeing me floundering and becoming more despondent by the day, my mother took me away on a two week holiday.

I wasn't worried about missing classes and falling behind. Most of my classes didn't even challenge me, so I wasn't in danger of failing any time soon.

However, what did worry me – shocked the hell out of me – was Edward. Like receiving water for the first time after a long absence, my eyes were opened and I hurt for him. And I watched, _I watched_, someone else struggling, someone else uncertain in the humdrum life became.

Oh, he was good at hiding his failings (just like myself), but I could _**now see**_. My heart broke for him, but with myself being broken, I couldn't reach out. Would he even accept my stretched-forth hand?

I had been the one to pull away from him. I had been the one to spew my hatred at him. And all of it was born out of jealously and my need to be his number one.

So I left with my mother, needing the time, space and quiet to try healing myself.

Granted I should have gone into therapy, but I refused. This had been my compromise.

While away, my mother made me talk for hours. She made me try and see what the root cause of my unhappiness was.

At times, I would clam up and refuse to talk, but the threat of having to return to therapy soon cured me of my inability to speak.

And after I talked, cried, yelled and begged my mother for it all to stop, I found the courage to pull back my veneer.

Everything with which I protected myself with was gone and the stark reality was frightening.

_I don't like myself_. It was as simple as that.

For almost a day, and even after the tears had dried up, my mother held me. She kissed my forehead, rubbed my back, threaded her fingers through my tangled hair and spoke (oh so tenderly) of her love and pride in me.

Her unending love and approval of me went far. It was a balm I needed but hadn't even realized.

I still, however, couldn't understand how I had gotten this bad. My self-loathing and discontent were the roots of my despondency. Now, I had to figure out how to rise above; how to love myself; how to become friends with the angry, bitter, caustic girl I was.

When I returned to school, I did feel better. My holiday had me rested and breathing more freely, despite all the tears shed.

Unfortunately, it didn't cure my flailing relationship with Emmett. Sadly I allowed it to fall. With barely being able to keep myself afloat and thriving, I couldn't carry him, too.

My love for him didn't waver, but my dedication and communication fell. There was nothing left to grasp. We continued, but it was all for naught.

The one person I did reach out to was the first person I had abandoned. He may not have known it was me, but I still reached.

With being afraid of his rejection, I instead wrote a letter to him. Cryptic as it may have seemed, I knew Edward would understand. But above all, I hoped it would shock him, help to pull him from the loneliness. Now that I watched him, noticed him again, I couldn't let him fall unnoticed.

Like me, his regular routine stayed the course. He and Bella continued to date, as did Emmett and I. But unlike Edward, I pulled away from the popularity, from the utter bullshit which soiled my life. I was done – I didn't need it any longer.

My senior year ended with my getting top grades, being accepted into the University my choice, starting to like myself a little more and my high school love dropping me.

It wasn't all that surprising, Emmett finally dumping me; but the words he uttered at me were devastating. In hindsight, I probably deserved most of them. But calling me unlovable had been the worst.

No matter how much of a bitch I may have been and how unfair I may have treated him, Rosalie Hale _**was **_**_lovable_**.

That was how I came to find myself in Edward's bedroom. Two weeks of school left and with the bullshit almost over, I selfishly found myself at the Cullens'.

Years had passed since I had been in this bedroom, and though the decor had changed, the walls still held our memories, the laughter from our adolescence. It still held the love I never questioned as a child.

Eventually Edward had found me. How? I didn't know, but he found me. And broken and tired of everything and heart-sore from Emmett's words, I fell.

Everything which had been held inside and bottled too tightly had churned out. And like before, like I knew would happen, Edward's body took it all from me. My best friend, my beautiful naivety, my childhood comforter.

Selfishly I took it all from him that night: all he selflessly gave.

My mother's text the next morning had sudden awoken me.

Shameful I felt in making her worry so. Quickly I untangled myself from Edward and the warm cocoon we had somehow created.

I took a few unfettered seconds to watch him. His chest rose and fell, copper hair plastered itself to his forehead, parted lips pulled in air and flushed cheeks begged for me to caress them. My heart was ready to overflow with emotion.

With a kiss placed on my index finger, I compromised with wanting to kiss him, and instead, placed the kissed finger on his bottom lip. He was so achingly handsome.

With a quick note left for him and a promise to see him again, I texted my mother and left for home.

My using him left me with a heavy, yet grateful heart.

.

.

The next time Edward and I saw each other hadn't gone as planned. A few days passed from that night, and when I had given up hope of him wanting anything to do with me, my phone rang.

He sounded normal on the phone, or as normal as I could tell and remember when he invited me for coffee; but as he pulled into my driveway, ready to pick me up, he turned the car off and approached me.

"Could we talk inside? Before we leave?" he asked, leaving me a little anxious. I was speechless and didn't really know how to reply. The small, brave smile – a smile I had worked all morning on – fell from my lips.

Edward pulled his sunglasses off and showed me the emotion raging in his eyes.

Without knowing what to do, I turned, unlocked my front door and sat down on the couch in the formal living room of my parents' house.

Edward did no such thing. Tiredly he paced, as if unsure what to do with his body or how to talk to me. My fingers start to curl around each other as his anxiety soaked into me.

Much time had passed since we were comfortable in each other's presence. We didn't know how to be anymore, and the stolen interlude in his bedroom seemed to have worn off.

Suddenly his pacing stopped and his emotionally-naked face sought me out. I was pinned to my seat.

"Did you write it, Rose?"

My heart didn't even need permission to plummet into my stomach. It promptly free-fell. I knew what he asked about. It wasn't that I was ashamed of what I wrote to him. Au contraire, I was actually proud of reaching out to him. It had been one of the unselfish things I'd done in a long time.

But how he was able to figure out it was questionable.

"How?" I thought to ask. It was all I could process.

"So you know to what I'm referring?" I nodded. There was no reason to lie.

"The letter you wrote to me, after leaving my room the next morning." His answer was so short, but so piercing.

_Of course_. I pulled my gaze from him and let it fall to my squirming hands.

_Is he mad? Does he think me a coward? Did he find my initial note helpful? Does he think me a terrible, selfish fraud? Is he done with me for good_?

Several sharp breaths were all I heard from Edward as I stared at anything but him. I was too scared to face him.

"Rose?" I knew what he wanted. But my terror wouldn't allow me took look up.

Again, "Rose," he called, but I still looked down.

Clammy fingers wrapped around my face, pulling it up without my permission. My lids slammed shut, but my silent inquisitor didn't remove his hands.

"Please, don't make me ask again." His heavy breaths tickled my eyelids. His thumbs started to caress on the underside of my cheekbones. I was utterly powerless to his quietly spoken request.

I slowly opened my lids, taking in the shining sun and a face that was too close to my own.

"Why did you write me the first letter? And why anonymously?"

It was everything I feared happening, yet still wanted. Writing to Edward anonymously had been an unselfish act on my part, but it hadn't stopped me from hoping someday he would know it was from me.

If feeling even a little bit myself, I would have teased him on such proper speech. But that would have been like poking myself in the eye. Our parents tolerated many things from us, but improper speech wasn't one. Most people would think me kidding, but my mother would charge me five dollars _each time_ I spoke less than properly. Suffice it to say, Speech and grammar mistakes soon disappeared. At least in front of her and dad.

"Rose?" My tangent thoughts fell away and I was back in the hot seat.

_Breathe, Rose_, I consoled myself. _It can be worse. He could be yelling, cursing, proclaiming to never wanting to see you again. It could be worse. Don't borrow trouble_.

With my heart slightly calm, but my mouth dry as toast, I let it all tumble. Unnecessarily, embarrassingly, Speedily.

"It wasn't done out of jest or malicious intent, Edward," I began beseechingly, needing him to understand this above all.

"One day, I looked up and saw myself in your eyes. Somehow, what I was suffering was mirrored in you, Edward. How could I let you fall without me reaching out, even in the most minuscule of ways?"

His eyes simply searched mine; seeking all the truth I had to give.

"No one would argue that I am not selfish and I put myself first. I would be the first to tell anyone so, but watching _you_ looking for something unknowingly unattainable went beyond my selfishness, Edward. I had to write that letter!"

He nodded while staying silent and waiting for me to finish.

"I would see you holding the note at times, confusion in your eyes. You wanted to know who had written it. But I couldn't come forward."

Anger started to become clear in my ex-friend's eyes, but I pushed through.

"I couldn't, Edward." I dropped my eyes as I told him my scariest truth, "How could I give anything to you, any relief when I had none for myself. I hate myself." My tone was so low, I wonder if he could even hear me. "Cruel, arrogant, uncaring, selfish, unyielding, caustic and terribly rude. And these are just a few of my 'shining' attributes."

I pushed the stinging from my eyes, needing to finish my explanation.

"What did I have to offer, but a little of the understanding _I was just starting to_ grasp myself. My mother took me away, all but forcing me to pull it all out, Edward. She wouldn't accept any less. I had to pull everything out, scatter it around just so I could know what I had inside me."

Finding my courage again, I looked up and studied my past friend. Sadness was all but leaking from him. But like time falling backward, he seemed to know what I require. Amongst his many emotions, I saw no pity and for that I could have kiss his swollen-bitten lips.

But maybe, too, it would have been hypocritical of him to have pity for me. Because somehow, among all the bullshit, Edward found himself directly in front of me.

"I'm just now starting to see a glimmer, Edward. A sliver –perhaps– of hope. Not everything inside of me is ugly, selfish, uncaring. Perhaps I can learn to love myself properly."

We were both studying each other, gazing almost too hotly at the other. The need to hide from him was strong, but I wouldn't relent. There was nothing to ever hide from him.

"Are you able to understand that, Edward? Does any of it make a modicum of sense?" I finally asked, reaching out for possible rejection.

My breathing become labored, scared of the rejection and the final door to our friendship slamming in my face. Not that is wasn't rightly deserved.

It would have served me right. I had done the same to him, and without his permission. What right to I have to want differently? My selfishness still knew no bounds.

Just as I was about to despair, to apologize profusely for my underhandedness, Edward reacted.

Cautiously he leaned forward – as if he expected me to become startled – put his mouth near my left ear and whispered, "Should've figured it was you, Rosalie. Who else would have the gumption to presume so much about me?"

Soft lips fleetingly touched below my ear before it even truly began to be felt.

Eyes met mine again, a minuscule, wobbly smile became pronounced.

"This doesn't mean I'm not angry with you or out-rightly forgive you. I had a right to know it was you, Rosalie, above anyone else leaving me something so personal."

I nodded, tears flooding my eyes. All this crying was unprecedented. I had always known Edward to be better than me, and with his forgiveness (no matter how much he may claim otherwise) he proved it to me, again.

As he stood and his knees popped from kneeling before me for so long, he extended his hand.

_Continually, unconditionally, lifting me up_ . . .

Shaking, I reached out, grasping his hand and allowed him to pull me up. I couldn't help but sigh at the physical contact. It seemed like forever ago since we held hands.

Warm fingers swiped at the falling tears on my cheeks. _I didn't even realize_ . . .

"No tears, love. Start by buying me a cup of well-made tea and we'll start from there, yeah?"

Wet giggles erupted in my chest, bringing another sliver of hope to my internal rebuilding.

And I guess his acceptance wasn't totally unconditional, _but a cup of tea . . . I could handle_.

.

.

That afternoon, we spent hours talking. So much was hashed out. And though it was only a beginning, a tentative bond was reestablished.

That young girl and boy who had clung so tightly to each other still existed. Their bond was still there, waiting for future adventures together.

After confiding to Edward everything about my self-hatred, Emmett and my unrealized down spiral, it was decided we would both go into counseling.

I was reluctant at first. I didn't want to go back into counseling. It reminded me of a dark period in my childhood, something which had robbed me of so much.

But with his volunteering to come with me and also get some help himself, I relented.

Once again, Edward was becoming my courage, my comforted. And I didn't even know why or could pinpoint how easily it seemed to fall into place for us. I guess something were never forgotten, no matter how much one tried to bury them.

Our parents were overjoyed with our renewed friendship. Both Esme and my mother cried at our decisions and sadness, but supported them.

Not everyone was totally happy with our reunion, but their opinions didn't matter. Alice had been spitting mad, but her little tantrum was ignored. Bella was wise enough not to comment, yet that hadn't stopped Edward from breaking up with her.

"_It was a long time coming, Rose, and had nothing to do with you_," Edward constantly reassured me. I had no reason to think otherwise.

I believed him and moved on. His relationship (or lack thereof) with Bella really had no bearing on me, no matter how sad it made me inside.

Dr. Cullen was quick to find a well-known therapist for everyone. And funnily enough, Alice was recruited, too. I couldn't help the laughter which bubbled inside me when she had found out.

"You must be joking!" she yelled, just before dessert was severed one night. "What the hell have I done to deserve a lobotomy?" _Overexaggerate much_? I secretly roll my eyes before catching the smirk on Edward's lips.

"Alice," Esme cries out, shocked at her daughter's harsh outburst. I'm not surprised. _Alice_ is Alice. I've made my peace with that.

"No, mom. Just because the Disturbed Duo needs help, doesn't mean I do, too!" Angrily she stomps her little foot. I hadn't seen anyone do that since elementary school. _**Okay**_, _since I did it myself. There. I'm getting better with being honest with myself every second_.

"Enough!"

Both Edward and I start. Dr. Cullen's sharp retort stops everything. Alice, blinking owlishly, looks to her father, real tears coming unbidden to her eyes.

"You'll not speak to your mother in such a manner again. Do I make myself more than clear, Alice Cullen?" Her head drops, but she nods.

"You no longer have driving privileges. I shall be collecting your keys after supper. No allowance for two months or using any credit cards. No parties or spending time with friends outside of the remaining week of school. Your phone will also become mine. All computer time will be done in my study, under my supervision, and if you disobey me any way, things will twice as bad. Am I made clear, Alice?"

Small sobs were heard from her tucked head, but her father wasn't relenting. The steel resolve in his voice was a dead giveaway.

My eyes were as wide as Alice's. She had been punished before – especially when we were friends and did stupid things together – never so harshly. I knew she had crossed a line, but I hadn't realized how far.

"Y-Yes, sir. Understood." Some would think Dr. Cullen's punishment too harsh, or not really tough enough, but they didn't understand Alice. Her phone, car, credit cards and social circle were her life. It was more than an effective punishment.

"You'll apologize to your mother, brother and Rosalie – a guest in our home. If I find out you said anything negative to your friends or shared our family business with anyone – _including Bella_ – then your punishment will extend into next school year. I'm not jesting, Alice Cullen."

And I always wondered why Edward was such a private individual. Mystery explained . . . he learned it at the feet of his father.

"You're going to be a senior in high school this year, daughter. It's time you start acting as such. Temper tantrums and foot-stomping are for grade school children. Am I to believe you have digressed? Are you going to require regular naptimes?"

Immediately she answers, "No, sir." It takes everything inside me to not smirk.

"Good."

And just like that, Dr. Cullen stops talking and continues to eat his dessert. No other words were spoken that dinner night.

.

.

My counseling sessions began in the beginning of June, and though they were challenging for me and brought back too dark memories, I persevered. I was determined to get better. To become a person to whom I could respect and learn to love.

I couldn't go back to being the old Rosalie Hale: stuck up, self-righteous and never progressing. People weren't meant to remain stagnant. Time moved, life changed, things evolved. It was the secret to life a person needed to know. Myself included.

After one difficult session in which it seemed I did nothing but regress, nothing but revile myself, nothing but cry miserably, I fell into Edward's arms.

That night he held to me tightly. Not even an inch of space separated us. There was nothing sexual in our intimate slumber. I cried . . . He held me . . . I clung to him . . . He took it all unto himself . . . I hated myself . . . He loved me . . . I pitifully thanked him . . . He thanked me in return.

"You're still my best friend, Rose. Never could I imagine my life without you. As I've come to rightly learn, Edward doesn't work without Rosalie."

"You're just trying to get me to buy you another tea," I mumble into his neck; my lips caressing his skin with each word spoken, each breath taken.

"Perhaps," he whispers, into my tangled hair, and I helplessly giggle, "But I speak the truth, love." My heart melts into goo at his words. My bleeding-heart Edward.

"You're silly."

"And you still love me, regardless." My breath becomes shortened. But I become perseverance-Rosalie for a reason.

"And I still love you, regardless. As you do me." My hands start to sweat at my presumptions, but I allow the fear in my reply to fall away. Edward already seems to know the truth before I even speak it. I allow such exquisite knowledge to comfort me.

The lulling sound of his thumping heart eventually puts me to sleep.

_As I love him_ . . .

.

Both Edward and I had rough sessions, but we continued. When one needed comfort, the other provided it. When one needed laughter, the other became a stand-up comedian (terribly, mind you). When one needed the comforting touch of another, hugs were dispensed, kisses placed on foreheads and hands securely held. When the dark was enough to send one over the edge, the light of the other's bedroom was sought after.

_Edward stood beside and behind Rosalie_.

_Rosalie stood beside and behind Edward_.

And at the beginning of a hot August night, beside a sparkling fire, our first kiss was finally realized.

It had thus far been a summer of realizations.

.

I lay on the flagstone surround, bordering the fire-pit. My head is turned as I stare at the gas flames licking the night air. Even though it's quite warm, there is something nostalgic about a fire which lightens one's spirit.

I can make out my unbound hair fluttering happily in the breeze. I'm quite sleepy, but terribly content.

Edward's head is touching the top of mine as he lies opposite me on the flagstone circle-surround.

I can't fathom how we're comfortable, but we are.

"Answer the question, love." My annoying companion continues to badger me.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"Edward!" I say, becoming annoyed at our circuitous conversation.

"Yes?" he says, sending me even further into an agitated tailspin.

"Must you be so maddening?"

Predictably, "Yes."

I helplessly giggle as I turn onto my stomach and look down on my friend, my feet beginning to swing in the air.

I flick his forehead. "You're incorrigible."

"And you love me, still. Even if you won't answer my question." I roll my eyes, but give him a special smile: one reserved solely for him.

"Maybe," I mumble, needing to be difficult. My stomach is doing uncomfortable things as I look down at him, so exquisitely beautiful in the fire's glow.

His eyes suddenly open and it feels as if my heart will soon burst out of its cavity. The green of his irises are impossibly green, even in the darkness of the summer night.

"Rose?"

I am utterly beguiled.

"Hmm, Edward? I answer, my throat parched.

I know what he's about to ask before the words even fall from his swollen lips.

"Have you ever thought about it?"

Clichéd as it is, I stop breathing and things seem to stop existing, to stop moving around me. Even the fire's flames.

Whatever we are, whatever we're feeling, has been brought into the light. And Edward makes no qualms about it. I can see the truth so clearly in the mossy green of his gaze.

My belly flutters and hands sweat (embarrassingly enough. I never pretended I was perfect). Tingles wash over my skin from the inside out as I intently study Edward's perfect face.

Unthinkingly my tongue sweeps over my dry lips. Everything is overwhelming and I have no idea how it even became such.

"Answer, love. I won't run."

"Edward," I plead, once more. There will be no going back from here. The certainty beats so painfully in my chest.

"Answer."

And the line becomes blurry as we both knowingly cross over.

My lids flutter closed as tears come to my eyes. I can't understand my reaction, but the intensity is immense.

"Yes," I answer. Though I want to stutter and never speak the answer aloud, I won't. Rosalie Hale is stronger than that. "I've thought about kissing you." When Edward expects me to stop, having answered his question, I continue. Why? I cannot say; I suddenly want it all out of me and placed on him.

"What it would be like. What you'd taste like. How your tongue would curl around mine. But Ed–"

Effectively . . . rudely . . . or romantically – depending on one's interpretations, Edward swallows my rebuttal with his lips.

It takes several seconds for my mind to register what is happening, where this may lead.

Firm lips work over mine, and even in my stupor, my belly immediately falls to my feet. The sudden change makes me dizzy, but it also gives my _friend _(?) a better advantage. With little restraint on my part and with weak arms, I am pulled down further onto my stomach, over Edward's face.

It doesn't take me very long to finally, _finally_, catch up. Tentatively my lips start to move. His bottom lip is captured between my parted ones and immediately I'm in rapture.

Nothing else is needed as I start to feast on his mouth. Glorious is all I can think as our lips move in sync. The position is quite different, but kissing him upside right brings a new tingle to my belly, a new sensation of fascination.

For several minutes all that exists is Edward and I: his sweet cologne surrounding me, his hands holding back my tangled golden hair, the tingling sensation along my spine, the sounds of our slightly sloppy kissing, the pounding of my erratic heart, his warm tongue pressing into my mouth.

Everything is overwhelming, and I'm joyous.

I don't know how much time passes. I don't know how I survived so long without his taste invading my mouth and soul. I can only kiss him with all that I am. Everything swirling within begs to be infused into Edward.

It is almost too much. But not enough.

Quickly he reverses our positions as he sits up, guides me on to my back and follows my downward-progression.

Endless minutes of bliss encase us. His lips, my lips; his tongue, my tongue; his taste, my taste – it is all ambiguous.

My fingers grab on to anything available. _Surely falling out of a plane can be no more thrilling than this_.

My eyes sting with the intensity. All the buildup is ready to simply overflow. Longing, happiness, shyness, inevitably, love, enduring; it all flows fervently below my hot skin.

And just when I think I'll combust, everything running over, Edward pulls back.

Eyes open and stare all encompassing into the others. Nothing seems to escape his notice as my very soul calls out to him_. I'm yours – infinitely_, it seems to spark.

Edward's weight feels delicious on me, even with hard flagstone cradling my back. If possible, I'd wish him to always lie atop me, never lifting his body from mine.

Needing to feel such an ardent connection again, I lift my head and seal my lips to his. Technically this is considered our second kiss, but I could have been fooled. My lips already know the shape of his, the texture, the swollen smoothness.

I pull back, after dropping one linger peck to his mouth, and allow my lungs to feel with nourishing, much needed oxygen. I curse my need to breathe.

Edward, however, seems to push beyond and latches his skilled lips to my throat. Little (embarrassing) mewling noises tickle in the back of my neck. Everything he does to my body is enough to send me reeling.

Sweetly our impromptu kissing stays innocent. Though my right leg is wrapped around the back of his thigh and he lays on me, our hands stay above clothes and lips on already exposed skin.

As if he can read my mind, Edward becomes naughty, sending my skin into that of goose flesh.

"I knew you'd taste like sweetest of flowers," he mumbles on my lips, sending them buzzing.

It may be corny, but my heart melts helplessly at his feet. His lips slide over mine again, taking in my bottom pout and then sucking on the top. "You're fucking saccharine, love."

I whimper at his explicit language, but goodness, he has me at a disadvantage. And I'm no blushing virgin.

Regardless, I giggle as he blows a raspberry into my neck.

I fall so helplessly for him. Sudden, sexy, hot, endearing, and adorable: these are all things Edward is able to make our first kiss. No one could ever accuse him of lacking.

I pull him back to my laughing lips and seal them together. I always knew it would be like this.

.

The moment was beautifully sweet, and something every girl should experience.

As first kisses go, I couldn't have asked for more.

.

* * *

.

Ramblings: I know this seems like an awkward place to stop, I couldn't find another place. Hopefully it isn't too weird.

So what did you think? Did you enjoy their first kiss? The changes in their life?

Thanks for all the reviews (those also to anonymous ones) and I hope everyone was able to receive my responses – those to whom I could respond to. They were wonderful and great to read! HUGS to all.

Next up: Rosalie's POV Part 2. The conclusion of this story.


	4. Can Be Attained

Note: Story earns its M rating this chapter.

**Can Be Attained**

"_What is heard has to be pondered over. What is pondered over had to be put into practice. It is only when all three are accomplished that the realization of bliss can be attained." _—_Sri Sathya Sai Baba _

. . .

Rosalie's POV

Over the following weeks we kept things almost PG. Though, there was a deeply, _**deeply**_, burning to know Edward intimately and everything his body had to offer, we didn't push boundaries. I knew it would come with time. But even beyond that, we wanted to let things happen slowly.

So many things had happened to us, so many things had already been rushed. There were many things which could go wrong, and we didn't feel like tempting it.

Our kissing would get hot and heavy, but we both respected our previous decision and would pull back. I was never felt dissatisfied or left hanging.

The fact that Edward and I were actually kissing, actually going on dates, actually holding hands, actually confessing the profound emotions of our hearts was enough to leave me breathless. The boy had me wholly consumed.

Not everything about our new, budding relationship went smoothly – _try as we might_. It wasn't that we fought or screamed at each other. In fact, it had nothing to do with arguments. But as someone once said something about good intentions and the pathway to hell, our first date wasn't a resounding success.

No matter how unsuccessful it may have been, it was ours and that made it beautiful; it was all that mattered.

I had begged Edward to let it be simple. There wasn't a need for over-the-top or grandstands, but Edward wasn't known for going small.

"I feel this pressure, love." He took my hand and placed it over his chest, explaining to me his purpose. I leaned in to him, hiding my face in his neck, allowing my fingers to take in the rhythmic thumping of his heart. It was sweeter than any song imaginable.

My lips caressed where they touched. I was falling too much for him, and too quickly.

"I don't need anything big; just you, me and perhaps a long kiss. That wouldn't be remiss." I stop talking and continue my ministrations to his neck. It is infinitely better anyway. He tastes sinful.

"No matter how much you try to persuade me otherwise with your lips, love." He stops talking as a moan escapes his throat. His breathing picks up and his hands become fisted in my hair. "Um, well . . ."

I giggle at his inarticulate thoughts.

"You're terrible, Rose, and I'll go big."

My eyes catch his as he loosens his grip in my hair. His fingers start to massage the back of my neck.

"Fine. If you must," I say long-suffering. But the twinkle in my eyes and excited flush to my cheeks gives me away, terribly.

"That's my girl." He places his supple lips to mine.

_Always was_, my heart beats under my ribs. _Just forgot for a time_.

.

Suffice it to say, his grand first date hadn't gone well. Good intentions and all that rot.

.

.

I still shiver as I change into my sweats. Quickly I make my way downstairs and find my sad date sitting warily on the couch. My heart automatically reaches out to him.

His head rises as he takes in my now clean appearance. I can't help the little giggles which escape my mouth. He is just so adorable with his slight pout and perpetually messy hair.

A wobbly smile finally makes an emergence on his gorgeous face, which I return readily. His arms stretch out to me and my heart is all but ready to thump out of my chest. The image he presents is exquisite.

The TV is on, but I can tell he is using it for background noise, probably anything to distract his thoughts. The fireplace sits empty, but still strangely inviting. Perhaps it is simply Edward, sitting back on the sofa, arms stretched out and encircling me.

Edward sits behind me, arms wrapped apologetically around my shoulders. I twine our hands together, squeezing his in comfort.

Sweet little kisses are placed behind my ear followed by sad sighs.

"It doesn't matter, Edward." I reach back, unseeing but knowingly, and weave my fingers through his hair. My date places his forehead on my shoulder. He is so tender.

"As I told you before, this is all I wanted: you, me and kissing. What more could a girl, wanting nothing else but her guy, ask for."

I keep my voice soft and fingers weaving through his hair, lightly scratching his scalp. It sends reassurance to his somewhat wary shoulders.

"Rose, please give me more credit. I know girls long for more regarding a first date. I wanted to make ours special." His defeatist attitude tugs painfully at my heart.

I lean back, cuddling into him further, wanting to wrap my warmth around him.

"Tell me this, Edward. Will you ever forget what happened?" I hear a little chuckle escape his closed lips. His forehead still rests on my left shoulder.

And to be fair, I'll never forget being splashed with dirty water from a puddle. My dress may be ruined and our date prematurely ended, but in another five (or ten years) we'll laugh about the night a car sprayed me with muddy water while going to the theater.

"That would be a hell no."

I giggle before snuggling further into him.

"Will my cuddling in your arms – warm, dry – by the glow of a TV in summer, be forgotten?"

"Your goose flesh says opposite," he refutes, whispering hotly in my ear. _And he wonders why I have goose bumps_.

"Will this . . ." I turn slightly in his arms, cup his face in my right hand and give him the kiss my heart begs me to plant on his plump lips. They are delicious.

After in unidentified amount of time, I pull back needing to breathe. My left temple falls to his forehead. Both of our lungs labor heavily.

When I can speak again, I finish my question, ". . . ever be forgotten?"

"Not if I can help it," he murmurs into my left cheek.

"Then you succeeded, Edward." I have nothing left to say. My eyes lock on to his, giving him all the thanks, affection and adulation I feel in this moment.

His gaze grows dark; the green of his irises are barely discernible. He pushes be back onto the sofa and lays his heavy frame over me. We stare at each other, letting the moment imprint our hearts. My fingers latch into his hair, and without hesitation he closes the little remaining space between us. Our lips don't part for a good while.

_An unsuccessful first date, my ass_. Clichéd, his kisses make everything better.

.

I knew that surely I would never want to forget that night and all it encompassed. I begged my older self to never let old age take it from us, either. But that was for another time and decade.

August bled into September and with that the ending of our supposed childhood. Though we were both eighteen, there is something sentimental about the ending of one's high school career and the beginning of bigger things to come.

Our counseling sessions continued as did our newly created relationship. Everyday which passed brought me closer to Edward. Our old, forgotten friendship flourished once again. It fluttered hopefully with each passing moment.

More dates were shared, more conversations had, more kisses exchanged, more boundaries passed, but my favorite date came the second week of September.

It had been what I envisioned our first one to be – not that I would change it now.

But the simplicity of it, the utter perfection of it, still leaves me breathless.

.

Laughter escapes from my glossed-covered lips. The noise from children nearby only adds to the merriment, the giddiness of the late afternoon.

The sun has already begun to set, but the warmth remains in the breeze. The smell of lake water mixed with cut grass wafts over me. I ache at the easiness of the near evening. These are moments which now define my life.

Not every day is easy and not every day is filled with such a longing simplicity, but today makes up for all the hardships and feeling of inadequacy. On days like this, I feel as if the world was created just for me and my guy; the sun nourishing my skin blazes brightly today for Rosalie Hale.

Something taps my inner thigh, and I pull away from my wistfulness. A lazy grin stretches over my lips as I watch Edward looking at me a little worriedly. _I must have spaced out longer than thought_.

I raise my hand and place it gently on his cheek. Sweetly he leans into my palm, nuzzling the skin on my wrist before kissing it. As becomes routine, my heart starts to pound in my chest, completely taken with his loving affection.

He doesn't need to voice his concern before I have an answer ready, "I'm fine. Just thinking how magnificent this day has been."

He scooches closer to me. Our bent knees become intertwined and our bare feet resting on top of each others. My hand falls from his cheek to collarbone. Absently I start to trace patterns on his exposed skin.

"Was this the first date you wanted, Rosalie?" I try to remain serious but can't help the happiness bubbling in my chest; the summer atmosphere just makes me too giddy, not to mention Edward's full attention.

"Probably, but it's no matter. Any time spent with you is lovely." I lean forward – my face inches from his – and playfully drop a kiss to his nose. He tries to lightly push me away but my fingers become fisted in his t-shirt.

We both end up laughing for no good reason, and the ring of it echoes off the surrounding trees.

"You're incredibly cheesy, love. I hope you know that," he humorously claims.

"And you're an incurable softie, but you don't see me throwing that in your face." I try to pout but fail spectacularly. My lips turn into a half smile. "You adore me, admit it." I stick my tongue out at him for good measure.

"Maybe . . . a little." He raises his fingers and shows me how little.

"Liar." I kiss his nose, again, before playfully licking it. His handsome face scrunches up as he attempts to wipe off my slobber.

Ah, the high road . . . I take it so often.

"That's just disgusting, love," he complains while using his shirt to clean his already dry face. He is such a drama queen.

"Oh, disgusting you say?" I tease. "I don't hear any complaints about how disgusting my tongue is when you're sucking on it or when it's–"

"Okay," he concedes, face a little pink, probably from both his rubbing it and embarrassment.

"You win." I allow my victory smirk to spread over my mouth.

I fist my hand in the front of his shirt before pulling his full lips to mine. I kiss him softly, lingering a little at the corner. His breaths are heavy on my face.

"You adore me, right?" My nose runs the length of his, giving it a sweet little Eskimo kiss.

"I adore you, yes," he murmurs, in my ear. "So much."

My teeth press bitingly into my lower lip. It is the only thing keeping me from blurting out the emotions sizzling so brightly in my veins.

"Me, too."

Quickly I untangle our bent knees and push my back on his chest, making myself comfortable between his thighs. If I stay facing him, surely he'll see everything I feel, everything I so long to tell him. And as good as we are now and how much we seem to be healing, I'm not sure we are quite ready to go there, yet. Even my therapist agrees. But she is the first to admit sometimes our hearts simply need to release the truth, and '_there is nothing wrong with that_'.

I release a contended sigh as I take in the sun setting peacefully on the lapping water. Oranges, reds and light pinks reflect beautifully off the water. Edward starts to lightly trace the skin around my skin and bare shoulders. I shiver from his light touches, but cuddle into him further.

Oh, we may not be perfect, we may have had our struggles, and we may continue to struggle daily, but with moments like this, it only strengthens my feelings for him. In moments like this I want to endure forever.

.

The summer finally ended, and with the sweet warm breezes and continual growth of our romantic interlude, our adolescents came to an end.

Progress had been reached and no longer did I hate myself. I still struggled with my self-image and the anger I held inside, but I wasn't continually disgusted with what I had become. So many years I had wasted and so many people I had hurt with my careless attitude.

I couldn't instantly forgive myself. I wasn't built like that. But with time, patience and learning to forgive myself, I would grow and become a better version of myself.

I only had to let time take its course. For it waited for no one. Even if it were a man-made invention.

As a reward for my growth and hard work, my parents decided to take me on an extended vacation for the last remaining two week of summer.

"It will be a sort of last hurrah; the ending of youthfulness and the new foray into adulthood," mother claimed.

"Just think of it as a holiday before starting college, sweetheart," my father followed up. My parents truly did work as a great team. "Indulge your old parents."

I loved my parents and wanted to make them happy, but I also didn't want to leave Edward. Yes, it was ridiculous, I would only be gone for several weeks, but my heart couldn't fathom the separation.

Shyly, I confessed this to my parents. They looked at me, looked at each other and started to laugh. Confusion over took me as they giggled like teenagers caught doing something naughty.

Before I could demand an explanation to my heartfelt worry, they sobered.

"Did you think we wouldn't include Edward, darling," mother said smiling. "You two are all but inseparable again."

"But-"

"But nothing, sweetheart," father took over. Carlisle, Esme and Edward are coming along. It's all worked out already."

To say I was surprised was an understatement. And even Alice was going to spend the two weeks with her aunt in New York City (declining, thankfully, I'm sure, than coming with us _crazy_ folk).

As I left the room I couldn't quite hide my annoyance at mother forking over five dollars to my father. Their betting was legendary in our family.

"Told you, Lillian. She and that boy are in love."

"Yeah, yeah," my mother rebutted. The sound of their kissing followed me up to my room.

So it was with great joy and anticipation that we all flew to Rhode Island and had quite the vacation. The Hales and the Cullens had rented a house on the beach, nestled on the shores of Newport.

We shopped, ate too much, read good books, swam, lounged around, played games and took in too many local attractions.

Everything was luxurious, yet picturesque.

But even with everything we did, nothing would ever compare to what Edward and I had done together – _to _each other, _with_ each other.

With our parents gone for the night, having booked an overnight excursion on a sailing yacht, Edward and I were left to ourselves; entrusted to be adults we were on the cusp of becoming and act accordingly.

After we went out to eat that night, having consumed the best lobster ever eaten, I was ready to go home. There had been something itching under my skin, sizzling in my veins. It begged to be discovered, released.

One hot look shared with my guy confirmed I wasn't the only one burning – metaphorically, between my thighs.

That night, with the moon shining between the gauzy curtains, and silky sheets spread over a king size bed, our yearning and our love was released.

.

There comes a time when words are no longer needed – they simply prolong the inevitable. This is one of those times. Some say when a person dies they see life flashing before their eyes. Scenes from their life blazes brilliantly, as if playing some continuous film strip. What one sees, I don't know, for every person is different.

I wasn't dying, but that doesn't seem to preclude me from seeing small snapshot of my formative years. As I stare at this boy, this boy-come-man, I see him so intricately woven in the fabric of my memories. Smiles shared, tears fallen, hands held, arguments had, cuts and bruises kissed, punches thrown, hair playfully pulled, secrets whispered and _love_ abounding.

It was always there, so expertly hidden from my conscious mind but always pulsating in my heart; unceasingly. How blind one's eyes can be. When one thinks they see everything, know everything, experience so much, the heart releases her secrets and shows differently.

_Damn_ . . . was I shown differently. The love I felt for Edward as a child was beautifully pure. The only thing it required was his happiness in return. We had our arguments but laughed in abundance. He was the best parts of young Rosalie.

The love I feel for him now, surprisingly, isn't all that different. Though it is deeper, more profound, better understood, it still requires his happiness.

And as I watch him as he watches me, I see the happiness radiating. Whether we are sharing it, or whether his happiness is soaking into my skin, I feel it so dazzlingly.

What I think I know about love is thrown out the window. What's left is a profound and newly-minted understanding. It leaves me breathless, light-headed and irretrievably changed. I feel too much.

As if both needing the contact, we reach out at the same time. Fingers grasp each other, becoming entwined.

Lips meet in the timeless dance of touching, parting, exploring, savoring, prolonging.

Breaths become labored, and chests heaving. Skin tingles and passion sparkles in the blood.

Hands become knotted in each other's hair, clothes, limbs. Oxygen becomes shared as tongues explore and tastes are identical, interchangeable.

Curves of the body are followed, outline to exquisite detail. Fingers crawl down the spine, sending shivers of pleasure everywhere.

Clothes are tenderly taken off, eyes following each piece discarded. Flushed skin is revealed, creamy and tantalizingly pink.

Searching hands explore soft, supple flesh. Goose bumps explode as arms are caressed, belly stroked, thighs tickled, legs massaged, breasts aroused, nipples excited, face bathed in kisses.

No part goes unexplored, touched, kissed, licked, loved. The buildup is fire personified.

And just when the body feels as if nothing else can be felt; sustained, it falls over so achingly beautiful. Nothing is held in reserve as back arches, eyes close, lips are bitten, fingers are grasping, breathing is arduous, skin is dewy, love abounding.

When the high comes down and the heart returns to a steady beating, eyes are sought out again. Emotions are raw and unyielding. Everything one feels is shared with the other. The emotions become twined, sinking deeply into each other's bones . . . soul.

The need to become one is all-encompassing. Nothing else is needed but to feel the adulation of being full, feeling bodies intertwined in the most intimate way imagined.

Bodies shake with excruciating rapture.

Instead of lying down, one on top of the other, bodies embrace upright: chest to chest, arms encircling the other, legs wrapped around hips, lungs expanding together, feet secured at the base of the back, hearts pounding as one.

Nothing is left.

Inch by profound inch, bodies are connected. Breaths become clogged in throats and tears spill as the sensation of being filled is beyond comprehension. All thought is lost and emotions reign.

Slowly bodies start to move. Movements are unhurried at first, becoming acquainted with each other. Once the uncomfortable feeling of being stretched too much passes, movement grows hotter. Beads of sweat start to appear, rolling unnoticed down flesh.

Whimpers are shared as lips fuse together sloppily. Moans are turned into slight screams as bodies get ever closer to the periphery.

Not being able to take it any longer, positions are changed and movement becomes less restrictive. With one lying down, legs wrapped around thighs, and the other atop, the friction becomes pure bliss.

The sound of skin rubbing together and breathing harsh only add to the high.

Harder and harder bodies come together.

Words of pleasure, "More . . . need you . . . please . . . never stop . . . forever . . . _love_ . . . _Edward_ . . ." mingle with each thrust, each whimper of desire.

And when a few more uncontrollable shoves between chafed-thighs are felt–to eternity and back–both fall simultaneously.

The drop is forever, exquisite, shared, and felt to the very soul: body and spirit combined.

The pinnacle of love is reached. Their love is abounding joyously.

Agonizing hearts beat as one.

Bodies stay coupled as foreheads now touch, hot and sweaty.

"I can't . . . Edward," I say, returning to myself, just slightly. I feel as if every part of my body will forever be joined with his. "No words," I whimper, shaking my head slightly.

I'm overcome.

"No words . . ." Edward moans roughly.

Even in thought we seem to be one. I may not have the words now to express myself and my body may be deliriously tired, but soon I know what I'll want – what I'll say.

"_More. More_."

"_More, Edward_."

_Love you_.

.

My cheeks can't help but pinken as I think about our first time and the rapture I felt with him inside me. I still find myself uncomprehending. Thighs rubbing together.

But even with all we reached our first time, every time we came together was better. I can't even explain the anomaly, nor would I want to.

I peel my red-painted toes from the sand and peer out at the crashing waves. They are like a symbolic testimony to Edward and I. Even as old ones crash and become something different, new ones are directly behind it, ready to renew the process.

Nature in all its glory.

Small movements behind me call my attention back to the present, back from my romanticizing.

My belly flutters as it takes in my sleeping guy. It doesn't seem to matter that we're on a beach with loud waves constantly roaring. Edward still finds his slumber. Adorable boy.

Sleepy eyes blink open. The mossy green still looks a little cloudy, but as his eyes roam around and finally land on me, I can see the disorient clearing. A silly smile splits through his rouge yawn.

I can't help but giggle at how utterly adorable he looks. I take everything in, imprinting every detail to memory. His hair is beyond disarrayed, his face is creased with lines, his cheeks are flushed, his jaw a little scruffy and eyes, well, they're twinkling.

I find myself leaning forward, needing to be closer to him. Not that the four feet separating us can be considered far. My fingers take on a life of their own as they tenderly trace the creases on his face over his scratchy jaw and into his coppery hair. I am so in love with him, it hurts me to think about sometimes how much I am.

A little mischief worms into my mind and I can't help saying, as I lean in further and place my lips at his ear, "Did I work you too much last night, Edward? Did I tire my guy out?"

A sharp inhale is all the answer I need. Mission accomplished.

But Edward is never one to settle.

A happy squeak leaves my mouth as I find myself lying on my back with a delicious looking Edward straddling my torso. It is my turn to breathe heavily.

"What is said about turnabout being fair play?"

I bite my bottom lip and try terribly to hold in the whimper wanting to leave my throat. Unthinkingly I arch my back and allow my hips to meet in between his parted legs. We both moan weakly at the too brief contact. I find myself too insatiable when it comes to this beautiful man.

"Just that, darling, fair play." His eyes become impossibly dark and my thighs all but tremble.

As he descends, all but ready to devour me, I turn my head. I can see the slight hurt in his eyes from the corner of my periphery, but I'm quick to reassure him.

"Not here, Edward. Things will escalate too fast." His lips hit my cheek instead of my mouth. He growls playfully into my cheek.

"You're a terrible tease."

I can' help but chuckle. Like he's one to talk. "But you wouldn't want me any different." This time he groans, knowing the truth in his heart. My beautiful man.

"I want you now and tonight; in many _different_ ways, love."

This time the trembling is felt everywhere. I wonder, as I look into his glorious visage, if I'll ever tire of him, his love, his soul.

The answer is an unequivocal no.

"And when we go to college?" I venture, loving the tease.

Thankfully we got into the same school, a promise long ago made. We had never wanted to be separated.

"Uninhibited."

"Hell," I whisper, thinking on such a time, such a wonder.

He doesn't know it, but Edward has won this round. I am now done in.

Before he can even think to blink, I push him off me, grab his hand and start to run for the rented house.

His deep rumbles of laughter are felt to my very core as he tries to keep up with my running stride. He knows what I want and how roughly. He's worked me over.

The future will be what it will be. Whether we are unreserved in our relationship, and all it entails, will happen.

This summer has been one of realizations. And the greatest one of all: Edward had always been mine.

Past. Present. Future.

But as for now, there is an empty house waiting for us and a bed wanting to be _filled_.

You make your own realizations.

.

* * *

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Final Rambling: And then comes the end. Hope you enjoyed this little tale of Edward and Rosalie. I had such a fun time writing it, and though there is a slight lemon and I hate writing them, I think it turned out alright.

What do you think? If you have the time, could you please leave a review and tell me your thoughts. They are very much appreciated and help me to become a better author. Truly!

I do have another two-chapter story in the works. Edward/Rosalie to be exact. Hope you come around again and read. Thanks so much for the reviews/and or alerts. Everything was appreciated.

Until my next story (next week perhaps), all my love.


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